Beauty is Relative, Babe
by EmbracingYourFreak
Summary: When England begins to show signs of illness, can America find the cause in time? And what repercussions are in store for him along the way? Hiatus. Inquire within.
1. Chapter 1

It had only been a little over eight weeks since that fateful evening, and America found he had never been happier.

Only eight weeks ago he had been exchanging bitter barbs with his former caretaker, one constantly trying to goad the other into a state of submission and hurt that, really, the two never truly wanted to see. There was a stinted affection that lay beneath the hateful banter that neither wanted to address - or, rather, neither had the courage to address. So the centuries-old resentment and blatant obstinance kept the acts going, spurring another harsh comment (_"Your cooking really does suck, England."_) with a biting retort in answer (_"It's damn-well better than your heart attack in a bun, you ungrateful prat!"_). This was their only form of communication and the only interaction that they could bring themselves to exchange.

But after a seemingly innocent slam from England while on the discussion of Hollywood romance after a long G8 meeting (_"Your head is so far up your arse you couldn't begin to know how to love another outside of yourself, git."_), America found his world abruptly derailed. Instead of giving his typical offhanded dismissal in the form of an insult, he found himself actually considering the acuity of the words. He'd never found himself in a relationship that consisted of more than a quick fuck or a diplomatic agreement. There were no stars that burst behind his eyes in an overwhelming flood of emotion when he thrust into the nation of the day; there was no warmth that bled through his chest that constricted into a tight ball of affection as he shook hands in a meeting.

However, he did remember a gentle roll of his stomach when England would look up at him for a brief moment with unguarded eyes. How he thought of how beautiful they were when they weren't clouded with anger or disdain and how if he'd just tilt his head the _slightest bit _the emerald would be absolutely breathtaking in the stream of sunlight through the window. He could recall countless times before when he had witnessed a genuine smile grace the small nation's lips as he spoke quietly with Japan in the meeting room and felt a muted tingling of something in his throat. _("What was that, anyway?" _he'd grouse on the plane ride home when thinking back to odd sensation.)

So when England tapped on his shoulder and jarred him from his confusing thoughts with a casual query (_"What's wrong with you? You've been silent for more than thirty seconds - is the world coming to an end already?"_) and looked at him with those green eyes that were flooded with what was definitely _not_ concern, America laughed it off (_"Nah. Giving a crotchety old man like you an easy out like that would be way too nice of me."_) and willed his heart not to clench as he attempted to pull off his usual sauntering gait when he made his way to the door while the not-concerned eyes hovered in the back of his mind.

The following months were painful for America and weren't ones he'd particularly care to dwell on when his day came to a lazy lull and his thoughts were free to wander. They were full of soul-searching (something he would not recommend to the weak at heart, when things came down to it.) and confusing arguments with the reflection in the mirror that always ended in the need for a few band-aids, a broom, and a quick trip to Target. England would try to stir a fire of cajoling from him, but every time he would glance up, that familiar grip that invisible hand had in his chest made the insults weak and the not-concern in those startlingly green eyes start to cause a little bubble in his throat to swell a little more after each exchange.

In the end it took a _very_ concerned (_"I was not panicked!"_) England cornering America and all but begging him (though the nation himself would deny it vehemently.) to explain what was going on. And in seeing those desperate eyes raking over his own in a frantic search for explanation, it took all of three seconds for the bubble in his throat to pop and the vice on his heart to squeeze a profession of love from America in a jumbled, inarticulate mess of _word-vomit_ (England still cringes at that particular terminology.). There was a startled silence, a gasp, and a deep, guttural sob that followed in a flurry of tears, laughter, and limbs clinging so tight, _so tight_.

Since then a soft, tentative love had enveloped the two. Though they rarely had the opportunity to meet with each other outside the meetings, the occasions they did have to spend together were spent in the solitude of a bedroom exchanging gentle kisses instead of mockery or simply holding each other in an attempt to become more intimate without the use of words or movement. There was an unspoken agreement that though they had little time together, one would not force or pressure the other to visit. They were nations - they didn't have the luxury to run over to each other's houses like their people did. They had duties to uphold. So they would wait and make what they could out of the time allotted.

And hanging on to that thought, America raised his arm and rapped sharply on the elaborate oak door in front of him that early morning, adjusting his glasses and running a hand through his hair with his other hand. It had been a long month since he'd last stepped on this particular doormat and he welcomed the sight of it, along with the delicate vines that managed to curl inconspicuously along the edge of the wall in a way that offered the house more charm than one would think. He smiled at the muffled curses that wafted from behind the closed door, and he leaned against the doorframe as he took in the pleasant sound of the clicking of a lock sliding out of place and the hushed squeak of a doorknob being twisted open.

"Mornin'," he smiled, reaching out to brush an errant blonde lock from emerald eyes.

The smile was wearily returned as a hand ushered him inside. "Good morning."

America made no hesitation to draw the other into his arms once behind the sanctuary of the oak door. He kissed the crown of England's head, his forehead, nose and, lingeringly, lips. An appreciative groan sounded from the older nation as he responded in kind, allowing entrance to the patiently lapping tongue rubbing enticingly at his lower lip and sliding his own out to exchange greetings. Though the two had been strapped for intimate interaction, there was no desperation or hungriness that ran electric currents beneath the kiss; just a lazy happiness that dulled the senses and flowed through each touching appendage. They were content.

"You been alright?" America ventured to ask once separated, keeping a hand on England's waist. The small island felt slightly thinner beneath the layers of clothing (_Though how could you tell when he has so many layers?_) and had a slight pallor to his skin, but America knew him better than to think he wouldn't be doing anything less than taking care of himself to a meticulous degree. His fingers threaded affectionately through the unruly blonde hair in front of him, twirling idly on the locks with a smile at the mental image of England fussing around the kitchen for his morning cup of tea (_"Never fails to keep one in tip-top shape!"_)

"Quite," England murmured, leaning in ever so slightly into the fingers' touch. How he had _missed_ that sensation. "How was your flight?"

"Eh; same ol', same ol'. Stuffed myself into an economy class flight, dealt with the irritable toddler, and mingled with the Londonders. Pretty good, all in all."

"You do have the authority to manage booking at least a first class seat, America," the older nation reasoned. "Why not take advantage of your status?"

America pulled back and stretched a bit and let out a low groan when a few audible cricks sounded from his spine. He slumped forward to lean languidly across the back of a plush chair to his right. "You know me. I like to mingle with my people. Besides, I feel like I'm getting a little disconnected with them lately. I could use some more personal time with them."

"So it has nothing to do with the penny pinching your president has issued, hm?" England smiled wryly. America opened his mouth to answer, but England simply shook his head. "Don't answer that. Are you hungry? I bought some biscuits that you had mentioned, 'didn't taste like dirt,'" he said with a slight twitch of the brow.

"Mm, maybe later. I'm beat - this whole jetlag thing's not real convenient when trying to get some tender loving from a boyfriend overseas." For emphasis, the younger snaked an arm around the other's waist, dragging him close. A brilliant red bloomed up England's neck, ears, cheeks - "You're adorable, babe."

"I am _not _adorable," a flustered England affirmed. America nuzzled into his side and tried to brush away the niggling sense of alarm that seemed to crawl under his skin. Was England always this thin? It really was hard to gauge through the incessant amount of clothing (_There should be a law against this much clothing._), but something was a bit off. Nonetheless, America pushed the feeling aside in favor of enjoying the hand now petting his head.

"Mnn. Of course you're not," he sighed. "You're terrifying."

"That's right."

"Frightening."

"Yes."

"Downright _appalling_."

England stiffened. "Too far."

There was a slight shuffling beneath him and a soft kiss to his cheek (_Slightly hollowed_, America's mind whispered.) was the form of apology he received. "You know I love you."

"And I love you, git," England sighed. He hefted America up to his feet with a steadying hand and ushered him to the stairs. "Let's put you to bed, then.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: I had to bump up the rating to M due to this chapter. I wasn't originally planning for smut, but it really seemed to help the plot along with it.

-hides-

America took a sharp inhale, his barely conscious mind reeling from the heady scent of fresh ink scrawled on aged parchment, Earl Grey taken with a tease of honey and slight undertones of freshly fallen rain on asphalt and a wisp of the sharp bite of open fields. Every bit of it was so very England and, as he'd found every time he was presented with the particular assault on his senses, America could not get enough. Whispering a few sleep-ladled words of affection, he burrowed his nose into the base of the exposed neck. A small, sleepy sound of utter content sounded before the room lapsed once more into a comfortable silence.

"Wha' time is it?" America yawned, though he cinched his eyes shut tighter against the prospect of leaving the haven of warm duvets and downy pillows.

"I imagine early evening," came the groggy reply, "I suppose I should have thought better than to come up and wake you for lunch; only you can make something as simple as sleeping appear to be an unimaginable bliss." America chortled.

"So you felt the need to join me in my bliss," he drawled, turning the small island over until he was faced with green eyes at half-mast. "But _damn it_ if I don't feel cheated out of this. I'd kill for some bliss right about now." He traced a small pattern with his tongue against the other's throat.

"It figures that you would turn a comment with absolutely no sexual intent behind it into something _v-vile!_" The last bit came as a stuttered cry as the tongue made its leisurely way up a path to the delicate flesh behind the lobe of an ear. America only hummed in agreement.

"You're too tense," he murmured into the ear, licking the rim in what was surely a "soothing" afterthought. Fingers sifted through the unkempt blonde hair that tickled his nose.

"I can't h-help it!" England growled, hands going up to cup the back of the younger country's head as a pair of lips and a set of teeth began to work together to apply _just_ the right amount of suction and pressure to his collarbone (_That's jutting out too distinctly to be healthy_, a voice whispered to America.) to make him moan. "It's hard to unwind when someone is putting a-_all!_ his efforts into winding you up."

America licked at the mark left on the pale skin. "Sounds like he knows what he's doing."

England grit his teeth and was preparing to answer with a biting remark when he promptly threw his head back in a silent, open-mouthed cry. He tried to keep hold of some small bit of mental clarity to keep from clawing savagely at the nation's scalp, but as deft fingers encircled the head of his hardening length from beneath the waistband of his boxers, he lost all sense of courtesy. He heaved a sharp breath, biting his lower lip to keep a moan inside the confines of his diaphragm (_Where it should stay, thank you very much!)_ and canted his hips ever so slightly as the fingers worked the sensitive glands and coaxed the now dripping member to maximum hardness.

"Sadly, I think you're right," the small island gasped.

"You look so fucking hot right now." The breath wafted across his lips and England's eyes snapped open (_When had I shut them?_ he thought in a hazily.)in startled response. America's gaze was intense as he closed the distance between them for a kiss that was too wet, too hot, too fucking _good - _

England barely caught the sob before it could wrench free of his throat when the hand drew away. But then the mouth was going lower, nibbling and sucking and teasing all along its path, from one peaked nipple to the next to the hollow of his ribcage connecting to his stomach (_Which isn't supposed to be that pronounced_, America's mind supplied dimly.) until England was sure he'd faint from the sheer _pleasure_ of it all. He choked out a gasp as the hand wrapped firmly around his dribbling prick once more, though something had joined it; something warm and throbbing almost in unison to his heart and, "Oh, _God_, America!"

The taller nation swallowed up the cry that followed, eagerly mapping out the insides of his lover's mouth with reckless abandon as he moved his hand slowly, _so slowly_. He reveled in the sharp jerks and shuddering of the body beneath his own, quite certain that his was acting in kind, even if he couldn't feel a thing other than that sweet promise of the precipice of ecstasy. He couldn't hold back the guttural moans and gasps as they rocked in unison under his hand; couldn't keep the desperation out of his voice as he breathed the nation's name repeatedly. Their mingled breath and noise sank into each other's skin and lit every nerve alight with a _wonderful_ fire that spread until their skin was humming with pleasure that was nearly tangible.

"I love you, I love you, I _love_ you," moaned England. He wrapped his arms around America's neck, panting heavily into the younger's shoulder between open-mouthed kisses.

"God, I - I - fuck, _England_!"

They came within seconds of one another with a sharp cry, bodies trembling and chests heaving for air as white ecstasy spurted out between their bodies. Struggling for rational thought through the waves of aftershocks, America rolled onto his side, pressing lazy kisses up the (_Far too bony! ) _wrist of his lover. Slowly the labored breathing gave way into something calmer and sated, and the two found each other's eyes through the receding madness.

"That," America announced, "Was awesome. Definitely a keeper in the 'welcome home' category."

England snorted as he faced and curled up against the younger. "I'll try to keep that in mind."

America frowned. "You sure you're okay?" He swept a few sweaty locks from the fevered brow. He didn't miss the flinch, however slight it was.

"I've said before - I'm fine." The annoyed edge in the sleepy voice might have been adorable were the situation different. "What's bringing on this _unnecessary_ concern?"

"Other than the fact that you're losing weight that you really can't afford to lose," America ignored the indignant shout (_"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"_), "Nothing, I guess. But you're looking a little pale, England. You'd tell me if something were wrong, right?" The worried tone caused the smaller nation to recoil.

"I'm perfectly alright, America." He stooped over the side of the bed to retrieve his shirt that he had discarded haphazardly earlier in the afternoon (_You're not supposed to see the ridges of a spine like that._) before leaving the sanctum of warmth.

"Then what's up with your bones peaking out to say hello? Doesn't exactly seem healthy to me." The slight stiffening of England went by unnoticed.

"And what would _you_ know about health, you twit?" England bit, sharp green eyes boring into blue as he roughly shoved his arms through the sleeves of the button-up. "Or haven't you seen the documentary -_ that your own people made_ - of your bloody _fast food industry?_"

"That was a while ago!" America demurred huffily. "We've gone under a lot of fine-tuning since then."

"Oh, yes, because it takes governmental analysis to realize that _food should not be super-sized._" The edge of the voice was swiftly forming ice.

"Hey." Green eyes twitched and fingers stilled mid-button at the placating tone. "Any other day I would _love_ to get into an open debate over the quality food offered at McDonald's. But I have three days to spend with you. I don't want to spend a minute of it arguing." America missed the eyes as they averted.

"I'm fine, America." The voice was softer, if not the slightest bit faltering. "I'll admit I've been a bit... ill since we've last seen each other. But I'm better." America tried not to acknowledge the slight clenching in his chest at the hesitancy in the voice.

"Then maybe it wasn't a good idea to visit bliss earlier," America murmured, slipping Texas up the bridge of his nose from its place on the bedside table. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed it."

"It's alright." The quiet reply accompanied with the pained glint in the emerald eyes set the larger nation on edge. England resumed buttoning his shirt.

"You'll tell me if I'm pushing you too far, right?" America shuffled over to the far side of the bed and took a slightly clammy hand into his own. "I know how hard it is for you old-timers to keep up with us whippersnappers, and I wouldn't want to make it worse for you." The jibe nudged a small smile from the small island.

"How very thoughtful of you," he said, the sardonic twist in his words lilting them into almost a laugh. "It's good to know you haven't completely lost your sense of etiquette over the years."

"What can I say? I'm going to need more than determination to get rid of those lessons you gave me." A gentle tug prompted an embrace. "I think they have their own little space in my brain. Like an inoperable tumor."

"You're comparing me to a _tumor?_"

America chuckled. "But you're _my_ tumor."

"If you're trying to wax on poetic romanticism, I suggest you pay Hollywood a visit," England mumbled. He smiled nonetheless.

"You love my improv skills," America said into the other's neck, trying, _trying _to overlook the ashen color of the flesh.

"They have their charm," England agreed softly, running a hand idly down the strong back beneath his fingers. "However crude they may appear."

America sighed. This was how things were supposed to be. Exchanging gentle jokes with each other, holding each other, _being together_ - it was how he'd spend the rest of his life, should he ever have the choice. He'd never said such aloud before, but he liked to believe that it was there, surrounding England in an unspoken promise. England had to know that he loved him so unconditionally; _had_ to know he would do anything for him. It was with these reassurances that America allowed himself to be led downstairs by a too-thin hand that only had the _slightest_ tremors running through the fingers.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: I haven't been feeling very well since Easter, so I've been working on this on and off. Not sure if I like what I have so far, but I've decided move on for now.

"Please, please, _please?"_

England kneaded his temples. And America, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he leaned over the granite countertop of the kitchen island, took this as a good sign. Upon cleaning up the remains of their earlier trip to "bliss," the two nations deposited themselves (_"How is sprawling ungentlemanly? I just wanted to get comfortable."_) onto the small sofa in the sitting room. The small country settled between open legs and strong arms and the younger _loved_ the feel of a steady thrum of a heartbeat beneath his hand. They stayed like that for a while, enjoying the sensation of each other's presence and touch and _life_ mingling into a beautiful pulse that throbbed through them in a smooth, pleasantly buzzing current with the light drone of the television in the background.

But America's stomach didn't agree with the beatific lounge. The loud grumble startled them out of the comfortable haze and the young nation took it upon himself to embark on a campaign of badgering his lover into submission with the plea to eat out.

"Come _on_, England! It's the first time in a _month_ that I get to see you," America moaned, his hands drumming an impatient beat out on the abused countertop. It was the sixth time he brought up this argument. "Seems like a special enough occasion to me!"

"I never said it _wasn't_, git." The voice was wound tight as fingers dug a little deeper into the skull.

"Then what's wrong with wanting to go out to celebrate a little? You'd swear I'm trying to talk you into burning the Chaucer section in your study or something." He padded around to the other side of the granite island, sliding his arms around the tense shoulders. England gave a slight flinch, but made no other response. America frowned. "England, seriously - help me out here. Is it really that bad to go out to eat with me?"

"_No_," came the exasperated reply. "Why is it so very strange for me not to enjoy galavanting about to public restaurants and having to deal with the disgusting eating environments they provide? I'm _quite_ sure I don't want to hear a couple's awkward declaration of having herpes behind us or endure a toddler's fussing over the lumpy apple sauce that was served half a room away."

"Well that's certainly a pessimistic view," America frowned, but smiling all the same. England sighed.

"Just because _you're_ so focused on eating whatever variety of slaughtered cow you have in front of you - I swear, you might as well have a _sound-proof barrier_ around your bloody head! - doesn't mean the rest of society has the luxury of ignoring their surroundings." The rant faltered slightly toward the end due to a very determined pair of lips kissing at the juncture between neck and shoulder.

"Beef deserves every bit of attention," America murmured against the skin, reveling in the tiny gooseflesh that responded to the touch. "It's practically an American pastime. But if you'd rather me devote my attention to _you,"_ He flicked a tongue out. "I can definitely arrange that."

"America," England sighed, trying to keep his voice level. "If you think this is going to change my mind, you're sorely mistaken."

"Mm. Maybe not. But it's definitely opening the idea up for discussion, right?" A soft nip encouraged a small moan. America lowered his voice to a sultry whisper. "Come on, babe. Just one night with just the two of us." He kissed one corner of England's slightly parted lips. "Just us." Kissed the other corner. "And good food." He stopped just short of pressing their lips together, letting soft breaths wash over the flesh as he ran a tongue over his lower lip invitingly.

"_Please_, America," England bit out, his hands clenching at the arms resting loosely around his waist. "I don't want to."

"But it'll be so _nice_, baby." America's voice was liquid seduction as he nuzzled his nose with the other's, tilting his lips _so close_ to a sweet connection. "We'll go somewhere private with no distractions." Hands roamed up and down the backs of slightly trembling thighs. "Someplace with soft lighting and gentle music," Blue eyes gazed into a hazy green. "and I'll wear a _tie_."

England's eyes snapped shut. "Fine! We'll go!" America smiled and rewarded him with a soft, lingering kiss.

"Awesome!" He guided the slightly dazed nation to the stairway, giving him a gentle push. "You go get ready. I'll join you soon; I'm going to grab my laptop from the car and make some calls." He didn't miss the glare as he strode to the door.

"It had better be a _damned fine_ tie," England called after him as he turned the handle. America sent a wink over his shoulder and stepped out into the chilled evening air.

"Like I own any other kind."

With his bank account fairly lighter and dressed in a grey tie with white and black argyle print (_"It so isn't too gaudy, you old man."_), America stepped out of the Bentley (which earned him a sarcastic drawl of, "You _never_ do anything half-classed, _do you?_" when he presented the rental) and hurried over to open the door for his lover. England flushed and spat out a few more indignant barbs, but accepted the offered hand. He had spent the whole ride over complaining about the last-minute decision and how he was in no mood for America's games when the other refused to tell him of their destination. But as they rounded the corner and he spotted the infamous logo, the older nation stopped short and gaped.

"_The Fat Duck?" _was all he could manage after a few tries.

America grinned. "Yeah. I was looking up some fancy restaurants in London and it got a few good reviews. Funny name for a nice place, but figured it would be worth a try."

"A-_a few good reviews?_" England sputtered, "America, this restaurant was named _best restaurant in the bleeding world_ five years ago." America thought he could see the poor nation's brain spasm as it grasped for words. "It's not an easily given out honor! To just - just _pop in_ one day - _at six in the bloody evening! -_ how did you even _manage_ it?"

"Aw, you give me too much credit. My cash did most of the work." It was said with a teasing air, but England balked.

"You - you - you're in a _recession!_ Shouldn't you be managing your money a bit more responsibly rather than wasting it on some_ random dining excursion?"_

America shrugged. "Probably. But we've never gone out _properly_," the last word he attempted in a dignified British accent, "before. I think the best place we've gone to was..." He gave a brief pause for thought. "Outback Steakhouse. _Not exactly_ the poster boy for romantic experiences." At this, he rounded in front of the other and snaked an arm around a thin waist, pulling the body closer and running his fingers through neatly brushed hair. "You deserve better. And you're _getting_ better." The pain of not knowing whether England was aware of the depths of his love had left its mark.

The soft pink flared to a brilliant scarlet across England's cheeks and America couldn't help but kiss the lips that opened and closed helplessly. There was no protest, but it took a bit of persuasion them to respond and for the shoulders to lose their rigidity. He knew England was very self-conscious about public displays of affection, but he waited patiently for the walls to lower and the slight answering pressure of the lips beneath his. When he pulled away, England's eyes looked glassy.

"Well it certainly won't do to be late, seeing as you've already put a well-enough dent in your pocket for this ridiculous night." The words were terse, but the voice was smooth and embarrassed. He gestured to the building's entrance. "Lead on."

America beamed, giving a small peck on a still blushing cheek (_Whose bone is still popping out unhealthily,_ that niggling whisper prodded) before strolling over to open the door for the older nation. England shook his head and smiled.

"I made a reservation for two under Jones," the younger said with his typical charismatic enthusiasm to the maître d'. The man gave a slight start as he looked between the two nations with something similar to shock before falling into a calm smile.

"Yes, I remember taking the call," he laughed, his voice lilting in a smooth French accent. "It's hard to forget! This establishment hardly receives calls for reservations made to be arranged sooner than two months. You are the first." England made a soft choking sound. "Please," the man gestured behind him, "this way, gentlemen."

The room was sparsely decorated with a few paintings that stretched along the otherwise plain whitewashed walls in abstract blends of blues and greens and yellows. A deep mahogany wood bordered along the stark walls with an uneven, rough exterior that gave off the illusion of the original tree trunk from which it had been crafted. Pillars that slithered down from the ceiling provided the room with a particularly earthy purity in their tree-like guise. The light streaming in from the windows bathed the room, giving a radiant intensity to simple yet elegant wooden chairs and a brilliant golden hue over the pale tablecloth hanging from circular tables. It was a modern look, but it was peaceful and relaxing.

"Right through here, gentlemen. Please, make yourselves comfortable."

The maître d' held open the door as the two stepped in, closing it swiftly behind him and effectively cut off the soft buzz of outside interaction. This room was similar to the one adjacent from it; it was simply at a smaller scale. The only defining piece it had was the small fireplace tucked away along the back wall.

"I wasn't aware you offered private rooms," England stated with a questioning quirk of his brow as he took his seat.

"Normally we do not," the man assured as he set down a pair of menus in front of the two nations. "But Mr. Jones is, once again, an exception tonight."

"Good Lord," growled the smaller nation. He turned to America with a scowl. "Just_ how much_ money did you hand out tonight?"

"Not nearly enough as you deserve, my dear." The words were said with such a somber expression that only the laughing twinkle in the blue eyes betrayed.

England snorted. "Come off it," he snapped. America simply winked. England, in turn, scowled.

The maître d' coughed quietly from the end on the table. "Would you like to select a pre-dinner champagne from the list?"

America smiled, not bothering to look down at the selection printed on the menu. "Yes, we'd like a glass of _Bollinger, Spacial Cuvee_." He didn't miss slight widening of green eyes as he pronounced the title properly; an inner cheer was made.

"Very good choice, sir," the man nodded, stepping back to the door. "Your server will be back with your selection soon." They nodded their thanks and he took his leave.

"You really are a piece of work," England mumbled as he rested his head into a waiting (_Shaking?_) palm. The door opened and a waiter strode through, balancing two chilled glasses of champagne on a small elegant tray.

America just smiled.

As an ending note, I'm really flattered that so many people have added this to their favorites! Thanks so much. Leave a review for a hug and a cookie? c:


	4. Chapter 4

I'm really sorry for any mistakes in these chapters. I have no beta. orz;;;

--

"So," America started conversationally as he lazily turned the steering wheel with one hand, his other busy working at loosening his tie. "Tell me why I forked out nearly fifteen hundred dollars for the crappiest food I've ever eaten."

While the dinner had begun in a fairly upbeat manner, things went decidedly downhill for the young nation once he skimmed through the menu. Not one item sounded like something he'd consider _edible_, much less appetizing (_Who in God's name wants to eat something called snail porridge?_). But when he glanced across the table to his dining company, he couldn't stop the swell in his chest at seeing the tiny smile tugging at lips that wrapped around the rim of a champagne glass as it was tentatively tipped back. It was such a small thing to get emotional over, America was aware, but that bit of happiness quelled any complaint that had formed on his lips. He wouldn't ruin tonight.

But now that they were in the solitude of a vehicle, the nation thought it was fair to allow the words that bit at his tongue some freedom. "How the hell did _that_ place win best restaurant in the world?"

England simply snorted. "I'm sure the lack of grease dripping from every mouthful was quite a traumatizing experience to endure."

"Hey," America's cheeks puffed out, "grease is only a byproduct in my food! It's not the main attraction." This only earned a scoff.

"Tell that to the damn near _translucent_ wrappers those awful hamburgers come in." The idle drumming on the the door handle held only the slightest bit of irritation. "One isn't supposed to see through paper, America."

The young nation made a soft noise of dismissal as the car swerved around another corner. "Not all burgers are like that. Besides, I have better cuisine than _just_ burgers, thanks very much. Our tri-tip is pretty damn good as well."

"Ah, yes, how could I have forgotten the great slab of bovine muscle?" A sharp click of the tongue followed the rhetoric sarcasm. "Truly a gem in the culinary world. It's a travesty that people fail to acknowledge the _quality_ bits of fat that lace through the bloody thing."

"Nah," America agreed sagely, "they'd rather invest in making pudding with organs meant to sort through the wastes in the bloodstream." He sent a smirk to the small island. "Sounds _so_ much more appetizing, right?"

"When you find me case of steak and kidney pudding inducing a stroke due to its artery-clogging fat intake, I'll be more inclined to listen to that argument."

"Hey," came the slightly miffed reply as they pulled smoothly into the driveway, "pork kidneys have a pretty high cholesterol level, Mr. Healthy."

One thick brow arched. "Been putting down the trashy tabloids for some medical journal reading, have you?"

"It's a possibility," America said with a nonchalant shrug, shifting the gear to park and cutting the engine before giving his passenger a smile. England patted a cheek affectionately.

"Look whose intelligence is showing," he crooned.

"It has its moments." The young nation leaned over the space between the passenger and driving seats, pulling the smaller forward for a swift kiss. Lips twitched into an almost-smile and he gave another quick peck to the slightly quirked corner before pulling away to open his door.

"Indeed it does. It's a shame you don't allow anyone else to witness its presence," England sighed in faux disappointment, following the other's lead and stepping out of the car.

"It's a special privilege to be able to see my insightful side." America gave the door a quick bump with his knee and pocketed the keys. "Besides, do you really think everyone would believe it's _me_ speaking if I started using logic rather than goofball heroism as a platform in a G8 meeting?" His smile changed to something slightly more rueful as he approached the front door. He ducked his head a bit when he felt those searching green eyes on him. "I'd rather give them something that they're familiar with - at least then there won't be any doubt that it's me."

England was quiet as he unlocked the door, glancing at his lover standing beside him as he pushed it open. They stood in the calm hush of the night, only the soft chirping of the crickets calling for their mates in the rosebushes breaking through the silence. And suddenly he smiled, _truly_ smiled, and took the young nation's hand in his, leading him inside. The sight caused America's heart to lodge itself in his throat in giddiness, but he simply returned the gesture in kind and nudged the door shut behind him with a foot before the small island tugged him forward.

Moments like these were those that the younger lived for; when England took it upon himself to slide a tongue over his lips in a plea for entrance, slipping into the depths of his mouth with such careful affection. It made the action so much more than a simple kiss - it was reverent and beautiful, dredging every bit of love they held for each other and allowing it to be shared through tendrils of warmth and soothing pleasure. There was no carnal lust that ran between them as fingers slid over cloth and flesh and hair; they knew that there were no time limits on this night. They could afford an easy contentedness instead.

When they separated with breaths coming in small pants and tiny bubbles of laughter, England rested his forehead against America's.

"It doesn't make sense," he breathed, his eyes sliding closed and hands roaming through the cornsilk hair.

"What?" America prompted softly. His thumb rubbed idly across the tender skin behind an ear.

England only gave his head the slightest shake. "Nothing." The younger didn't press for more; allowed himself to be led to the small loveseat in the living room.

"It really was shitty food," he ventured to remark after a few minutes of enduring the droning narrator of a nature documentary.

"If I remember correctly, it was you who pushed the outing so vehemently." A slightly baleful look was shot his way. America hugged the other closer around the middle.

"Yeah, but I was under the assumption they had some awesome food," he disregarded the disdainful snort, "weren't they known for their 'inventive ideas?' It seemed more like the chef was counting on everyone to be too wowed with the fact he used liquid nitrogen to cook the dishes to realize it tasted like garbage."

"You're simply too uncultured to appreciate fine delicacies, you twat." It was a sharp response - quite in contradiction with the body that pressed closer into America's side. He swallowed a chuckle.

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled fondly, stroking his thumb along the palm he held. "I'm a heathen; truly barbaric in all my uncouth ways. And yet you put up with me."

"Consider yourself lucky I do."

America laughed. "Admit it, you geezer," he turned onto his side, guiding the other to rest against his chest. "I'm a pretty awesome boyfriend."

England hummed absently.

They sat quietly in the soft glow of the television for a while, images of marine life flashing across the screen in a vibrant display of color and wonder. While America wasn't one to tune in to nature specials when plopped in front of his wide screen, he could appreciate the beauties the world held; he watched in an easy complacency and paid no mind when the small island made a soft admission that he'd return shortly.

But as time ticked away and one show bled into the next, his interest had peaked. He headed for the stairway, positive that he had heard the rustle of his lover's feet tread up the steps when he had left. Did he decide to go to sleep? The nation frowned; England usually had the courtesy of telling him when he was heading to bed. For him to forego the habit was a bit disconcerting. After all, the small island was downright belligerent when it came to keeping to traditions.

He peeked behind each door as he passed, only to find the lights out and room uninhabited. As he reached the end of the hallway, America heaved a frustrated puff; the bedroom light was dim, but clearly on. Rolling his eyes, he opened his mouth to voice his irritation, but was cut short by the sound of a muffled sob. Blue eyes widened behind their frames and feet hurried forward to the bathroom that sheltered the pained voice. He threw open the door without a second thought.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," he rushed. "I shouldn't have forced you to go, but I thought you weren't sick any -" But the words died in his throat as he took in the scene.

The small nation was on his knees, a slight sheen of sweat beading his brow from exertion. Narrow shoulders shuddered in exhaustion and a hand was fisted around the seat of the toilet, knuckles white in their desperate grip. The emerald eyes that looked up had a horrible, swirling mixture of shock and shame and _fear_ through a veil of tears - America's head spun from the intensity. But his attention was drawn to the hand splayed on the ground at the island's side. Two pink, raw fingers had smeared a sickening line of viscous yellow across the tile in the hurry to turn and address the intruder. The same color of the contents in the bowl, he was alarmed to note.

"What's going on, England?" The voice trembled and cracked.

His only answer was a tiny sound of keening distress that forced the breath from his lungs.

--

So this might be an awkward place to leave off, but I thought it was appropriate. Also, I'm kind of getting the feeling that my writing's getting a little repetitive, so I apologize for that.

Reviews are loved, as always!


	5. Chapter 5

This chapter was a bit difficult for me to write. I myself have been in a similar situation, so the emotion here might appear a bit overdramatic, but it really hits home with me.

--

"England," he tried once more. The lump in his throat made the words garbled and strained to his ears. "What's going on?"

All at once the conflicting rage of emotion faded from the green eyes and a sheepish smile formed on vomit-stained lips. A careful composure swept across the drawn face and a new wall erected itself. America felt the sharp bite of bile at the back of his tongue.

"I suppose you were right about the food," the airy nonchalance in the words was unnerving, "it seems it didn't settle well with my stomach."

Something drew tight in America's stomach (_Tighter, tighter, always tighter._) and the sour stench of sick in the air seemed to constrict around his throat and muffle his breath with the force of a pillow pressed to his face; heavy with the intent of suffocation. His mind whirled at a dizzying pace, pivoting memories of bones crushed_ too closely_ against the thin boundaries flesh and frightening thoughts of the small nation curled into himself in his too-large bed, shivering from the lack of warmth, warmth that thin body couldn't provide until he nearly doubled over in shock and nausea. But his face held the impassive facade of a man bombarded with too wide a variety of emotions to handle (_Too much, too much, I can't - England -_).

He was hardly aware that the other nation was speaking.

"It's alright, really." America's fingers twitched at his side. "I've always had a bit of a finicky stomach. I'll admit that it's quite a pain, but hardly anything to get riled up over."

The small island rose to his feet, casually brushing the filth from his fingers onto his trousers and pulling the lever to flush the toilet's contents into a swirling mass of foaming yellow. The warmth that the green eyes attempted to give felt artificial; the smile looked distant and forced. Pressure pulled relentlessly tighter at the young nation's stomach. He was sure he would split in two if it continued.

"Really, America, don't give me that look," chided the other. "I can't really control my body's reactions, can I? It _is_ a shame, though; that food - as bizarre as it looked - was actually quite tasty. I wonder if -"

"Stop it." It was hardly a whisper, but there was an intense vehemence behind the command.

A startled silence swallowed the atmosphere whole.

"Pardon?"

"Stop deflecting," America growled, his voice raising at the response of a thick brow raising in a calm surprise. "Tell me the truth, England. Tell me what's going on."

"America, you really need to let this go. I told you, I'm -"

"_Liar!_"

Toiletries clattered to the floor, scattering across tile from the force of the blow to the counter. England stumbled a few steps back, nearly losing his balance as the backs of his knees collided against the porcelain brim of the bathtub. The cool, collected demeanor was swiftly crumbling into shaking hands and skittish eyes in the face of such a display of anger; America could see his jaw set as the nation ground his teeth grind in an effort to regain composure. The younger didn't give him the opportunity to collect frayed nerves.

"Tell me what's going on." He took a step forward, his posture and stance emitting an aura of ferocious vigor.

England flinched violently, but stood his ground. The young nation felt sick.

"America, _nothing_ is going on." There was a sharp waver in the words. Green eyes locked onto the bright yellow that marred the pure white of the tile.

The slight hitching in taut shoulders was not overlooked.

America lunged, his hands grasping either side of the gaunt face in an almost bruising hold with trembling desperation and helpless anger. He forced the eyes to his, ignoring the feeble attempt to recoil from the touch and dismissing the anguish that seemed to pour from the man that stood before him. The wall all but crumbled.

"Why are you lying to me?" the younger demanded. His hands shook with the rest of his body. "Why are you _hiding_?"

"I'm not." The reply was a breath of fear.

"Stop_ lying_!"

Tears spilled over and green irises hid behind the veil of cinched lids.

"I'm not lying, I'm not - it's nothing, I promise; I -"

"_Stop it, Arthur!_"

Powerful, ugly sobs reverberated off the walls and the smaller man collapsed, falling into waiting strong arms. America said nothing as despairing screams interlaced the wet sounds, and did not comment the hands that clutched at his shirt with a despondency that positively _frightened_ him. He simply held the small island, rubbing circles across the bony, trembling spine in what he hoped was a soothing monotony and murmured a steady stream of calming nonsense into silky blonde hair. But try as he might, the burning in his eyes couldn't be ignored. He cried with his lover.

Minutes ticked by.

America waited.

At the half-hour mark, England had quieted to tiny hitching breaths and trembling shoulders. The younger nation kissed the tear-stained cheeks, each lid that covered beautiful emerald eyes, each brow so gently, so _lovingly,_ trying to push every bit of affection and devotion he held into the tiny gestures. His lover went slack under the tender ministrations.

"I love you," America mumbled, ghosting his fingers along a sharp jawline. "I love you _so_ much."

"I love you." The answering breathy whisper was so tentative that the younger had to strain to hear.

"Then please," America's voice was wet and cracked, "_please_ tell me. Tell me what's going on. I can't take this, England. _Arthur_, I can't _take_ seeing you like this."

"Alfred, please don't."

"_Please_, Arthur."

A slight faltering breath brought a heavy silence.

"I throw up." America's head snapped up, catching watery green. A few more tears trickled free into hollowed cheeks.

"You -"

"I... force it."

A suffocating quiet took the bathroom, squeezing and compressing the air until it seemed to gather and congeal in America's lungs, making each breath an _agonizing_ ordeal. His hands stilled at the small of the shaking back and lips parted into an expression of conflicting shock and denial. He could feel the growing alarm radiate from the other, from the way the stiffening fingers dug that into his shoulders in a bruising grip to the quivering lips that glittered with tears in the soft light. A small, timid voice broke the silence and America's heart.

"I'm sorry."

There was no uncertainty in the crushing embrace that pulled the small nation forward and there was no hesitance in the damp kisses that pressed to the pale flesh of a neck. Though it prompted another round of harsh sobs and miserable moans, America couldn't stop the hands that stroked through hair or the teary lips that mumbled calming platitudes.

"It's alright," he muttered, his mouth pressed to skin. "It's okay, baby, it's okay. We'll get through this. I love you._ It's okay._"

And as he listened to the heart-wrenching sounds of distress and felt the body tremble violently against his own, he promised himself that what he was saying was more than just useless words of comfort.

--

I am truly sorry if anyone has lost interest in this due to the new developments. I know that most of you were looking forward to a mind-blowing illness, but I find that the reality of this illness is nothing to look down at.

To anyone still interested in this fic, no, this is not over. I intend for this to be much like my own story - I want to show the struggles of recovering from an eating disorder.


	6. Chapter 6

America ached.

From his head to his toes, a deep, pulsating, _constant_ ache had managed to seep into his flesh, splay over the muscle tissue and settle within the marrow of his bones. With every step taken his body protested, dragging to the point where he could _swear _he heard the sound of muffled screaming coming from beneath his skin. He had conquered and moved beyond the precipice of weariness; his body moved systematically with little input from sources outside basic instinct and memory.

So when an inconspicuous mass of modern technology that sat atop the marble countertop buzzed for the _fifth_ time, filling the kitchen with a familiar jingle that could only be associated to _one_ person, every fiber America contained cringed away from the device. He knew what was awaiting him behind the clever rouse of plastic and wires. With a shaky, haggard sigh and a bit of fumbling as it slipped and slid from his clumsy fingers (_He needs me, he needs me; remember: He needs me._), he flipped the cover and held the receiver to his ear.

"Yes, Mr. President."

A loud, angry voice exploded through the connection, leaving America to flinch back at the vehemence of the words.

"I know, sir. That was the original plan, but -"

The voice raised an octave higher as it reached a new peak of anger. America's eyes fluttered shut (_Breathe, breathe, keep breathing_.), lips thinning out to a fine line as he listened and waited.

"Yes, sir. I know, sir, but I can't -"

A new bout of rage sounded and America couldn't help the small tremors that ran through his in his hands at every syllable being blasted into his skull.

"I know, sir, I know; but I _can't_ -"

A small part of him was shocked the poor cellular hadn't simply shattered from the sheer volume and outrage that surged through; it must have reached twice the amount that was received in the beginning of the call. His sympathy for the phone slammed to a halt, however, when the subject of his _true_ concern was voiced followed by one too many harsh words.

"_Enough!_"

The plastic cracked under the vice of his grip (_Or maybe it's the last of your sanity, _a small voice offered._ Wouldn't that suck._) and his shoulders shook with the effort of keeping further outbursts locked away. With a fleeting moment of satisfaction for the silence received on the other end, America picked at his train of thought in a slightly more subdued manner.

"Sir, I understand you need me back home. But I can't leave right now and I _won't_ leave right now. I don't care how many reasons you give me or whether any of them even matter. As much as my people need me, I'm needed here."

An exasperated enquiry shouted though the phone.

"Fax the paperwork over here. Send me transcripts of all the meetings and I'll send you my input either by email or fax. You can always send me extra updates if you absolutely need to."

There was a slight pause before another frustrated query was bitten out. America bristled, his free hand moving on its own accord as it swung out in a sort of helpless rage, knocking over pot of tea he had been trying to heat. His voice, however, was eerily calm.

"You tell them that their nation, the very _reason _they live the life of luxury and wealth, has another priority on his hands and that he will _stay_ with that priority until that priority's needs _are taken care of_."

A long, strained silence fell, leaving only the soft crackling of the connection to fill in the tense atmosphere that traveled between continents. Finally, a sigh followed by a tired resignation was given.

"Thank you, sir."

Another few mumbled words and a huffy farewell was voiced, which America politely parroted before snapping the phone shut with a sharp _click!_ and replacing it on the counter. He stared at it for a while, as if will alone could cause an explosion in a wonderful show of sparks and its plastic shrapnel. The thought seemed more and more appealing with each second that crawled by - to be the sole controller of this phone, _this one thing_, and to have the opportunity to completely annihilate its existence without touching it,_ without laying a finger on it_.

But he couldn't and didn't, seeing as he had things to do; things he should have been doing before the interruption. He turned back to the stove and a rather desolate looking pile of broken ceramic and spilt water on the clean whites and blacks of tile. Stooping down to scoop the shattered remains up, he immediately jerked his hands away from the pool of broken bits that were cradled in his palm with a sharp hiss. They were hot; _too_ hot for flesh to be in direct contact with. He gave his right hand a suspicious glare and, sure enough, there was a small welt of pinkened, irritated flesh on the heel.

_(Deep breaths; in out, in out. Repeat as needed.)_

Allowing the oxygen to gather, to inflate his lungs to their fullest extent, America held the breath there, letting it sit and fester within tender tissue, _holding_ it as the overly-full sensation shifted into a tight burning of pent up carbon dioxide clawing for release. He granted the request with a painfully slow exhale, the air sifting through a barrier of gritted teeth as it sought a hasty exit.

The repetitions continued until his legs began to give protest to the crouch that they'd been forced into for a tad too long for their liking. He acquiesced to their plea quickly enough and leveled himself to his feet, setting off in search of the broom and dustpan within the small closet that stood adjacent to the kitchen. Upon entry, he couldn't help the tiny, strangled sound that bubbled up from his throat.

The storage cupboard was _impeccably_ clean and well organized. So very much like England to keep even a broom closet like an office space, with labels and all. The country reigned his house in the level-headed regard he would when commanding troops - everything had a rightful place, time and order. There was absolutely _no_ excuse for a sloppy living space, much less a sloppy self-appearance.

_(He's getting better, he'll get better.)_

America retrieved the necessary items with clinically precise movements, forcing all other thought into a tiny bottle before shoving aside to the farthest corners of his mind. Overemotional thinking would only prolong the work he had to do, and he needed to finish quickly. The closet door shut with a resounding slam. America ignored the thundering _whump!_ of it falling to the ground.

"England, I have dinner ready," America called with a smile, fumbling slightly with the lock to the bedroom door while he balanced a tray that was tipping precariously to its doom. "It's beef stew. I even made added the Guinness to it like you always -"

He stopped short as the lock gave way and door eased open. The acrid stench of sick permeated the air. He tossed a quick glance to the bathroom entryway - the alarm was still rigged to sound if the door opened. His gaze fell to the man sitting on the bed, pillow cradled like a safety precaution between his middle and America. Even if this was the umpteenth time this had happened, blue eyes puddled with tears.

"Where is it, England?"

His voice was hoarse and his smile fell into something more akin to a grimace. There was a hesitancy in the face that refused to look up, green eyes shifting nervously from their gaze upon trembling hands. With a sad twitch at the corner of his lips, he set the tray down on bedside table, careful not to slosh the stew or tea too much as it was lowered. He then turned to the small island, moving to sit on the edge of the bed with a gait much like one would use when approaching a wild animal.

"England, baby," he sighed as he settled onto the plush mattress, "where is it?"

Narrow shoulders shook under the weight of the question. America smoothed a hand over them.

"I'm not mad." He inched a bit closer and noticed the smell became stronger the closer he edged the small island. "I just need to clean it up, that's all. Can please you tell me where it is, babe?"

The anxious shifting was back, and for a second America was positive England would flee. But violently trembling hands seized the pillow, handing it over grudgingly to the younger nation. America accepted the offering with a curious frown. He paused for a moment, simply holding the downy bundle before venturing to look into the open slit of the pillowcase. Sure enough, there was a puddle of vomit within, already soaking into the stuffing within. It would have to be replaced.

He swallowed down the sudden rise of bile as he looked up into the streaming eyes of his lover and _hated_ the cold helplessness that stabbed at his chest.

"You can't keep doing this, baby," America murmured, stroking his thumb gently across a tear track. "You're going to kill yourself if you keep this up. This needs to stop."

Green eyes looked imploringly at him, swirling with self-deprecation and a madness that America knew lay just beneath the surface. He wanted to scream, to break things, to do _something_ about the mess that the love of his life had fallen into. He wanted to come face to face with whatever demons forced England to _do_ _this_ to himself and kick their ass, to_ save him from himself_.

But in the end, there was nothing he could do more than what he was already doing. So he drew the older nation closer and placed a chaste kiss on the sweat-beaded forehead and whispered his love across against the fevered flesh before getting up to place the pillow near the door to be tossed after the meal.

"So I made beef stew," America started again, trying to pick up the lighthearted air that he'd entered with as he plucked up the tray from where he'd lay waiting. "Probably not the same as how you'd make it since there were no fire extinguishers involved, but I think I did an okay job."

"Why are you doing this?"

America didn't falter at the soft, trembling query, simply nestled the tray onto the quilts atop the bed and took his seat next to the nation.

"Because I love you," he said lightly. "Do you want the tea now, or after dinner?"

When no answer came, America took it upon himself to prepare the tea. "I hope you don't mind the Afternoon blend. It's all that I could think of serving you this late without you bitching at me that it's the wrong tea to drink at the wrong time, and all that English propriety junk."

They sat in silence, the only sounds in the room the soft pitter-patter of a late afternoon London shower and the tinkering of the tea set as America worked. He followed all the steps that England had taught him to a tee, from "elevating" the tea to letting it steep for _exactly_ five and a half minutes before pouring. He added a dash of milk and a teaspoon of honey to the blend, stirring it lightly before handing it over to the nation beside him atop a delicate saucer. The small island looked at the proffered cup tiredly before looking away.

"England," he pleaded, hand still outstretched with tea, "baby, you can't drink _this?_ It's just tea. Tea with skimmed milk, honey, no sugar." He waited a few more beats. "You won't even take a sip?"

The small island only slowly pivoted his head away.

America withdrew his hand and replaced the tea on the tray with a shaky sigh. Instead, he took up the small bowl filled with a hearty stew, complete with potatoes, carrots and bits of parsley scattered across the top. He knew this would be the main struggle; since his involvement in England's "problem," the nation had fought tooth and nail against food once he found most of his attempts at self-induced vomiting thwarted. Though it _killed_ him to see emerald eyes so desperate and full of such raw _hurt_, he knew it was for the good of the proud monarchist's well-being.

"Babe, you have to eat this," he stated softly, pushing the tray out of what might be harm's way. "And we can do this the easy way or the hard way. You can take this and eat it on your own or I can feed it to you myself. It makes no difference to me in the end - you're getting fed either way."

There was a definite stiffening in the small island's shoulders. America heaved a small, sad sigh before setting the bowl down. England immediately reacted - he scrambled around the bed and bolted for the door, slipping over his own feet in his rush. The younger nation caught him by the wrist, leading him, as the older tugged and sobbed and shouted, to the large armchair kept in the corner of the bedroom as he picked up the bowl of stew.

He proceeded to push the nation into the seat and promptly straddled his thighs, blocking any escape route possible as he carefully settled his weight onto the other. Setting the bowl down on the arm of the chair, the younger quickly took hold of both flailing wrists and pinned them to the plush cushioning of behind the older. The pleas and tears might have derailed him before, but there was no distracting him from his duty.

"Open." The command was firm, but the voice was gentle as America prodded the spoon against lips. Green eyes glared defiantly to blue as the lips pressed firmly together in their battle against the stew.

But if America was anything these days, it was patient. He held the spoon there, pushing it firmly upon the disobedient lips and waited. When it reached the five minute mark, the young nation began to sink into desperation.

"Baby, please eat," he implored, his voice edged with raw emotion. "You need to eat. You just threw up every bit of breakfast and lunch and you need _something_. Please, for the _love of_ _God_, eat a bite for me."

The room sank into a heavy silence. Tears slipped from emerald eyes as their lids fell and the mouth opened with a soft sob. America kissed the mop of golden hair and eased the spoon in, withdrawing when he felt the resistance of lips closing over the utensil.

They continued on for four more bites before England shut down, simply refusing to raise his head or meet the sad gaze of his partner. So America leaned back and stepped to his feet, taking the bowl and the tray to the bedside table before lifting the unresponsive nation into his arms and settling into bed beside him. He ran his fingers through soft golden locks as he held the small island close, drawing the blankets over them and whispering words of love to coax him to what he tried to convince himself was a blissful sleep.

"I love you, babe. I love you so much. You're so beautiful. I love you. I love you."

Hours later, America was jolted awake by the shrill shriek of an alarm and immediately shifted to "action mode." He swiftly slipped out of the comfort of the warm bed and sprinted to the bathroom door, launching himself at the hunched form. He grabbed at the fingers that made a desperate effort to burry themselves down an open mouth as he hugged the nation to his breast.

"Stop it!" the older screeched, struggling with such desperation that America couldn't help the tears that brimmed his eyes. "I need to do this! You _bastard_, let me _go!"_

"No," America said softly. "I'm not going to let you go, Arthur."

"You fucking twat," England screamed, fingers clawing at the strong arms that held him in place. "I _hate_ you! Let me go, I _need_ this_, let me go!"_

"I won't let you go," the younger repeated, tears trailing down in steady tracks. "I won't because I love you, Arthur. I love you."

Two days had never seemed so long.


	7. Chapter 7

As the days began to meld together into one spectacular blur, America found himself trapped. There was a heaviness that weighed on his limbs, like moving through a pit of volatile quicksand. The nearly constant barrage of caustic outcries only served to deepen the chasm, gradually swallowing him whole as he sank, sank down into its _(Pulling, tugging, engulfing -)_ abyss as a small bubble of hysteria settled itself _(Choking, smothering, strangling -)_ comfortably within his esophagus. He hardly registered the dull pang that settled into a monotonous throb in his chest - it had long since settled and became consistent with each tear shed from emerald eyes.

America accepted the routine of screams and scratches with a smile and loving reassurances. He continued to walk through his care taking duties with unwavering dedication, humming a lighthearted tune that he knew sounded quite empty and sad. He would swallow the churning mass that stretched and pressed against the confines of taut muscles that contracted and swelled with a forced, hollowed, and _entirely_ inappropriate laugh.

And though the young nation was tired of the pitiful charade he put up - longed to just lay down and _grieve_ - he knew it was necessary. Something dangerous sizzled within the guise of pressure and constriction. It clawed for release as it pushed and grew, seeking freedom with a voracious hunger that tore and ripped and _seared _and _hated_. The power behind it frightened America - downright _terrified_ him when he realized the possible consequences of releasing it.

So time and again, he would swallow that bubble down to a bearable size and allow it to slither down his throat once more, letting it fester as it fed off of the ammunition needed to stretch and push at the back of his tongue once more. He would pointedly disregard the exhaustion that persistently pulsated behind his eyes as he distracted himself with documents at the bedside table. The faint sounds of his pen scritching across papers filled the room as he tirelessly scribbled down notes for the small island (_To blatantly ignore,_ a soft voice murmured.) concerning his politics and current events when he wasn't looking over batches sent from his own people. The nation would throw himself headfirst into any task, if only to distract from the incessant pulsing that ticked away in his throat.

After all, England needed him functional and attentive. It was he that America fought for; not himself. And as he accepted the bruises and verbal abuse from the other, America reminded himself of this. He imagined the brilliant smile that once graced the chapped, bleeding lips and remembered the melodic laugh that was now warped and lost to the screaming voice that cracked with sobs and tears around malignant insults. Those memories grounded him, held the delirium at bay and gave him the strength to focus on what exactly he was doing.

However, America acknowledged his limitations.

"I'm sorry to ask this on such short notice, but I'm -" His breath hitched. "I don't know what to _do_." He swallowed the bubble forcefully as he gave a brief pause for a soft reassurance. "Thank you; thank you so, _so_ much. I'll see you in a few."

Clipping the phone shut with a shuddering sigh, the young nation ran deft fingers over the dull, slightly matted flaxen locks of the worn man dozing fitfully beside him. Fingertips trailed over the rather angular protrusion of a cheekbone and the sharp edge of a jaw, not feeling for that moment the hard lines of malnourishment, but soft, plump cushioning of a _healthy_ body - one that was well-fed and not trembling beneath copious layers of blankets. America ran a thumb gently over the cracked flesh of a bottom lip; he drew back cautiously as green eyes snapped open.

"England," he began gently, "someone's coming over to talk to you. They're going to try and help you."

America could see a spark of madness catch alight within the hazy green. He grit his teeth against something between a scream and a sob.

"There's nothing wrong with me."

It was hardly a whisper, but the words tore through America like a blade heated in the gleaming read coals of a fire - cleaving the tissue and bone within his chest cavity neatly in two as his innards heaved under the sudden exposure and bled into the duvet below. He could imagine the carnage spilling over the older nation, and wondered absently whether the man would scream; would scramble back over the slippery carnage while America would smile at the display with sleepy fascination.

The younger swallowed hard as the potent scent of blood splayed over his tongue and tickled at the back of his throat.

_(Breathe in, breathe out; repeat.)_

"There's nothing wrong with me." America recognized the plea for what it was. England buried his face into the blankets; whether to muffle his voice or suffocate himself, the younger couldn't tell. "Nothing's wrong with me! _I'm_ _fine!"_

"You're not fine," America gently demurred as pried the fingers away from their grip on the blankets. He could see the tension rippling through taut shoulders. A tiny voice debated whether the flesh might rip open under the strain. "You're sick, England. You're killing yourself, and you can't stop. You need help."

"How - how _could_ you?" The change of pace in the conversation floored the younger as England's voice cracked and trembled in new heights of fury and hysterics. "To tell the others of - to tell _anyone_ - you fucking _bastard!"_

_(Breathe in, breathe out; repeat.)_

"You need help," America protested hoarsely. His throat was growing dry and a familiar pressure was building. "I didn't tell a nation. We can't help you, don't you see?" He flicked a nervous tongue out to wet his lips briefly. "You need a - a professional."

"_Fuck you!" _America flinched and his stomach rolled. "_Fuck you, _you bloody,fucking_ - fuck!_"

_(Breathe in, breathe out; repeat.)_

"England, you need to calm down." There was only the slightest hint of begging to America's tone as he pulled fingers that had curled and formed a claw-like resemblance from where they attempted to rip into a grief-contorted face. "Remember what happened yesterday? I don't want to have do that again."

"Let me go,_ let me go!" _sobbed the island as he thrashed. "Please, _please_ let me go! I need - _need to_ -"

_(Breathe in, breathe out; repeat.)_

"I can't let you go, Arthur," America whispered. "If I do, you'll fall apart. I have to help you stay together."

"You don't know," England moaned, his hands shaking violently in the other's tightening hold, "_you don't know!"_

"You're right." The accession was quavering and soft, leaving America to swallow rapidly in its wake. "I don't know a lot of things right now. I don't know why you're doing this to yourself - hell, I don't know how long you've _been_ doing this to yourself. And - and I don't know what I can do to stop it."

He looked down at the stilled body beneath him. Thick eyebrows drew into a helpless scowl while tears leaked idly from half-mast emerald eyes that darkened with loathing. His throat contracted violently.

"But," he managed to croak out, "I won't stop trying to find the answers. I'll solve these problems one by one, Arthur - I swear I will. I'll figure out how to fix this."

When England did not respond, America pressed his lips to the now lax knuckles of the older nation.

"Please, just let me be a hero. Just this once, babe."

A pregnant hush settled over the suddenly too-still room, heavy with an electric undercurrent that hummed a low drone of heat. America shuddered as it thrummed steadily beneath his flesh, tears prickling for some inexplicable reason at the corners of his eyes as he gazed down at the older nation. England twitched under the scrutiny of the younger, teeth sinking into the tender flesh of his lower lip as his eyes shifted to stare fixedly at the ceiling. A thin line of scarlet was drawn along the contours of the offending teeth and bubbled over to dribble down into the soft casing of the pillow. America wordlessly released the frail wrists and allowed them to drop bonelessly to the island's sides as he brushed the crimson streak with a thumb. His other hand smoothed across a wrinkled brow in slow, tentative strokes.

"Do you want to go downstairs to talk?" America asked, "or would you be more comfortable up here?"

The monarchist merely stared over the young nation's shoulder.

"Up here it is." The younger silently went to work binding his partner's hands. England wept.

_(Breathe in, breathe out; repeat.)_

"Thank you for coming."

Though his voice was tinged with a nearly tangible thickness of exhaustion, America gave the most gracious grin he could manage as he stepped back into the hallway to allow entrance to the patiently waiting visitor on the porch. She was an older woman - middle-aged, America mused as he took in the flecks of grey speckled throughout her short, perfectly curled hair. Though she carried herself with a rigid posture and was clad in a despicably neat and pressed dress suit, she had a kind face; one that was not subjected to the frenzied attempts of some women to perfect whatever features they deemed imperfect. Her eyes were clean of any caked on mess of makeup used to disguise the gentle ridges of crow's feet that crinkled at the corners of her eyes as she smiled, and her cheeks were devoid of product to distract from the distinct laugh-lines that sloped gently from nose to lips.

"Not a problem, Mr. Jones," she affirmed, patting the younger nation's arm in a horribly placating gesture.

America chose to ignore the violent constriction of his throat in favor of securing the latches of the front door.

"After all," the woman continued as she strode through the entryway, "I could hardly say no. You sounded positively frantic. If things are truly as poorly off as you've said, it would be hypocritical for someone in my profession to ignore the call."

The young nation's smile waned at the offhanded comment, his stomach giving a violent lurch as it was stabbed with the forthright finality of an accusation proving itself true. Of course he was aware of its validity - he'd known since the beginning of the messy ordeal he'd found himself thrust into. But to hear it from an outside source, someone completely unbiased and unaware of details beyond the bare minimum; he could feel the small, foolish flicker of denial and hope fizzle out beneath the crushing weight of truth.

Because when it came down to things, there _was_ something wrong with England.

"Now where might Mr. Kirkland be?"

"Upstairs." His reply came too quickly and too harshly for America's liking. He struggled to rekindle the ease and genial air of his earlier smile in earnest; he hoped it looked a little more welcoming than the painful grimace he imagined it to be. Amber eyes swept over his face briefly, but the woman was otherwise either unfazed by the awkward display or hadn't noticed.

"Will he be alright staying up there for a bit?" she asked kindly. "I'd rather like to get a bit of Mr. Kirkland's background, if you will."

America's stomach gave another sharp churn. _Background?_ He forced down a derisive snort at the thought explaining the centuries that the man up the flight of stairs had endured.

"Yeah," he said instead, "I've got him secured."

The woman looked bemused at the assurance. "Secured?"

"Well, I've got to keep him safe from himself," America explained. "When I leave the room, he just," he swallowed the sudden lump of emotion that lodged itself into his windpipe, "hurts himself more."

"Hurts himself." It seemed more of a statement than a question, but the nation knew she was waiting for an explanation.

"Yeah." Azure eyes flicked unconsciously to the staircase. "He makes - he makes himself throw up. Repeatedly."

America could feel the calculating, ever analyzing gaze sweep over him once more. His attention drifted pointedly to the wilting leaves of a potted plant perched upon a small tabletop by the door. He'd have to water it soon.

"And how exactly are you keeping him secured?" The nation tensed at the tone that was straying far too close to accusatory. Burning, _searing _pain surged from the pits of his stomach and shot up to the back of his tongue, _begging_ to be released.

"I have to keep him tied to the bed."

The affronted flash in amber eyes was unmistakable; painted lips parted, but America refused to give her the chance to speak.

"I only use handcuffs with cushioned lining - it won't cut or bruise him," he said in a hurried breath. His heart pounded painfully in his chest. "I just needed some way to make sure he wouldn't -"

"Mr. Jones, that is _not _a method that I can approve -"

"I needed to do this," America interjected, pleading with the woman to understand and validate his actions. "I couldn't let him do that to himself every time I left the room -"

"Mr. Jones, I _understand_ your actions weren't ones out of malice, but -"

"It's not like I keep him there all the time!" The young nation felt like he was crumbling. "I just can't let him out of my sight, you see?"

"_Mr. Jones _-"

And suddenly that bubble - that spiteful, _disgusting_ bubble - nudged his lips into moving on their own accord. It was still in tact, but America made no attempt in swallowing it down once more. His eyes glazed over. The disproving voice fell silent.

"I need to make sure he doesn't hurt himself anymore." The words were forced between gritted teeth in a low growl, the helplessness and fear and _anger_ of it all building and _building_ - "You think I enjoy doing this? _It's killing me!" _Hands shook and breath caught and quaked. "If he's not throwing up, he's scratching himself to pieces. I can't leave him alone, I _can't_ let him do that. There are other things I need to do around here for him - I can't stay by his side all day and night! I - I -" America's voice tore into an ugly, terrible scream.

"_I couldn't think of anything else to do!"_

America stood shaking, staring through a haze at the plaster that seemed to be devouring his fist. It was only after a few moments of gathering his wits together that he acknowledged the warmth trickling from his knuckles. He tentatively withdrew his hand, holding it up to study the ragged rips in flesh. The room's other occupant said nothing as she followed him to the kitchen; watched him run water over the wounds before wrapping it in a dishtowel.

"May I ask what the nature of your relationship is with Mr. Kirkland?" The sweet tone was back in full-force.

The young nation paused, weighing the possibilities silently as he leaned over the sink and stared at the drain. The woman was a professional - even if he couldn't divulge in explaining _everything_, he knew he should tell her what he could afford to. But England, whom had been so very reluctant in letting anyone know the details of their "Special Relationship," would no doubt be upset in letting a complete stranger in on their delicate secret. He scowled out the kitchen window. It was drizzling outside.

"We're boyfriends."

"And when you say 'boyfriends,' you mean lovers?" The term sounded cheesy and overdramatic coming from her lips. It took away the wonder and beauty from what they shared.

"Yeah," he said dully. "We're lovers."

"I see." The woman paused, looking around the kitchen carefully before facing America once more. "And this is his home?"

"Yes." The droplets of water looked so depressing as they trickled down the windowpane. "I live over in America."

"Long distance relationships often take a toll on hearts." America pictured himself as one of the water droplets, dripping down, down, down as he hummed his agreement. "How does Mr. Kirkland feel about this?"

"He doesn't like it any more than I do," the nation said, a bit of heat edging into his tone. "But we don't have a choice in the matter. We have jobs to do."

"And what might those be?"

"Inner-government analysis." It wasn't a complete lie.

The woman gave a small, impressed sound. "Important jobs indeed. I can't imagine you being able to come across the pond very often."

"I can't," America mumbled. His eyes dropped to the china that sat on the windowsill. Beautiful porcelain that shined brilliantly despite the decades it had been through; his eyes burned. "I come as often as I can, though. He does too."

"Where did you two meet one another?" The query was innocent enough, but the nation's insides twisted in panic.

"I was really young," he said, trying to keep his voice level and calm. "He found me one day. He raised me."

The dubious silence was suffocating.

"I know it's sounds strange," he said hurriedly, "but I really love him. We're not related - it wasn't blood that brought him to me. It was fate." His heart gave a sharp twinge. "I think everything that happened from then on out had a reason. Everything was meant to lead to this."

"How beautiful." America could hear the smile in her voice. "You must feel very blessed."

The young nation watched the tree limbs droop under the torrent of rain that now beat upon them.

"I do."

"You say that he's been displaying 'cracks' in his mental stability." The woman paused and he could feel her eyes bore into the back of his head (_In an _entirely_ not-so-subtle method of analyzation,_ America mused). "Would you care to elaborate? I'm afraid your explanation over the phone was rather vague."

Every fiber within America tensed. "He screams and cries a lot," he said slowly, as though each word was in need of the utmost consideration. "It comes and goes. When I try and stop him from hurting himself, he loses control - he starts punching and scratching, screaming like - like _I'm_ the one trying to kill him."

"Did he ever exhibit this behavior in the past?" Fingers curled around the lip of the sink instinctively.

"No," he said with a vehemence that was, admittedly, uncalled for. But the burning was there once more, swirling and licking away at his stomach. "He's never been anything like this."

"So it's only occurred this past week?" America mumbled his agreement as he watched England's beautiful roses drown in the downpour. The fire roared in his chest. "With no provocation?"

"We've been over this," the nation said with no small amount of exasperation. He spun around to face the guest. "I don't know why he's been doing this. It just started randomly! If I knew, you wouldn't be here, _doctor_."

"I ask because bulimia isn't a disorder that pops out of the blue, so to speak." Hazel eyes held steady with blue, undaunted by the blatant bitterness. "There's always a catalyst that pushes the inflicted over the edge, starting the cycle of purging. It's an emotional overbalance that's not uncommon to be caused by an outside source - or person."

The flames that crackled and spat gave way to a sheet of ice that was spreading rapidly, pushing his stomach to his toes and wedging his heart into his throat.

"So you're saying that I caused this." The powerful nation's voice was reduced to a trembling, shallow whisper.

"Not necessarily." The reassurance did nothing to quell the freezing ache that stretched and _bled_ into his chest. "The contributing factor could come from anything, really - television, radio, magazines, books -"

"Arthur's not like that." America hated the emptiness in his tone. "He's not affected by outside media. No matter what the popular fads and trends are, he's himself; he has been all his life."

"He's unaffected by media altogether?"

America snorted. "Look around - half the things he has in just his _kitchen_ could be sold as an artifact." He shook his head and managed a small, weak smile for himself. "He doesn't let the outside world change him. He is who he is. It's part of the reason I love him."

"So we've established that he holds his values close." The woman gave a pause for thought. "How is he socially?"

The nation opened his mouth, expecting the reply to come quite easily. England was wonderful; he had a sharp wit and used every opportunity to display it in conversations. He was charming and funny with a wonderfully complex and diverse personality. America loved moments of discovery when he happened upon a new side of the monarchist.

But the words died upon his lips before he could manage to form them. The England that he knew was different from the England he presented to the public. The island was reserved and defensive to nations in a meeting, caustic walls slamming themselves down on an unsuspecting member of a conversation if it would stray too close to sensitive areas of the man's life. And in reality, nearly _everything_ was a sensitive topic when it came down to England's private life. Beside America, he wasn't so sure the island had another to claim as a friend.

Azure eyes resignedly fell to the tile. He swallowed the tears as a soft announcement was made.

"I believe it's time to speak to Mr. Kirkland."


	8. Chapter 8

Author's note: I'm _so_ sorry for the long gap between updates. I promise the next chapter will be out within the next month. Also, I feel incredibly selfish for asking for reviews, but they really are encouraging. Please take the extra time to leave a few remarks regarding your opinions and views on how the story is coming along. That being said, please enjoy the next chapter!

-o-

"And Mr. Kirkland has been provided proper meals?"

America heaved an inward sigh. He was sure that the awkward attempts at idle conversation were meant to put him at ease; something to distract from the oppressive mass that loomed and condensed tauntingly in the air. And he could hardly blame the doctor - as they made their way up the narrow staircase, a nearly tangible energy seemed ooze and dribble from the ceiling, pouring across the walls and soaking into the carpet. He could imagine it squelching beneath his shoes, pulling at the soles of his feet with every step in an effort to swallow him up and _drown him_ in its endless depths.

But upon flicking his gaze back to his company, it appeared America was the only one experiencing any unpleasant effects from the questionably present presence. Other than hazel eyes glazing over with the most repulsive shade of pity, the woman behind him seemed unfazed by the viscous goo that _would not stop pulling_. Ducking his head, the nation turned his attention resolutely to the landing ahead _(Don't look at me like that - I don't need your pity, I don't _want_ your pity.)_ and allowed his eyes to adjust to the haunted, opaque and utterly hopeless looking glass that melded over his eyes and tainted the view of the dimly lit hallway.

He didn't bother to point out that she'd asked the same question twice before, and found no use in reminding her that twice he'd answered with a frustrated affirmative.

It was only when they had reached the bedroom doorway that America showed signs of mental coherency outside of forced, automatic reactions. The fine hairs quivered on the back of his neck and his fingers twitched absently. Strong, broad shoulders seemed to tremble as they strained to slip into a relaxed demeanor, trying desperately to fight an instinctive rigidity that pulled his muscles taut against his flesh. Something feral stirred in the azure eyes, flickering with an eager interest as the battle raged on; glowing and _bursting_ behind bright cobalt with a wild and wholly animalistic flare before their lids snapped shut.

Every sensation swept over his body in a tidal wave, rattling him to the bone with its violent intensity. Yet it crashed and settled in a silent torrent; appearing to any spectator as nothing more than a brief spasm one might experience from a chill fluttering down their spine. While frightening at first, it was taken in ease as it quickly fled down to shaken fingertips and curled toes and was shrugged off with an awkward smile.

And the woman beside America responded to the reaction as expected - she offered a reassuring smile and a soothing hand as the nation drew a sharp, rattling breath. Though if she wasn't alarmed by the small display before, America mused, the brilliant smile that he donned as they crossed the threshold must have been rather intriguing.

"Arthur," he announced, blue irises taking on a pale shade of heartache that shone through the broad smile as he approached the rigid body upon the bed. "This is Dr. Hunt. She's here to help." A gentle hand swept fondly through golden locks.

Dulled green eyes showed no sign of recognition as the man above swept a gentle hand through flaxen locks; merely watched as he unlocked the toy cuffs attached to two limp arms.

America took a seat upon the quilts, taking an unresponsive hand into his own. "She's here to help you."

"Please," a soft, nearly silken voice in its gentle tones, made itself known from the doorway. "Cynthia is perfectly fine."

England, for his part, regarded the guest with little interest. His face was smoothed over with an impassive, almost vacant stare, but America could see the spark of a flint striking behind emerald eyes. Reassuring fingers stroked along sunken cheek.

"It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Kirkland." Cynthia kept a respectable distance, nodding politely from where she stood with a small smile. She gestured to the slender wooden chair America had set alongside the nation's bedside table. "May I have a seat? I'm afraid these bones are getting too tired to keep up with the London weather, and they get a bit creaky under a late downpour."

America studied the monarchist's face closely, clinging to his carefree smile desperately as he noted a rather sharp tick tugging at the corner of his partner's lips; a worried, drawn face would only add further stress. He needed to be calm and collective.

"Please." The word sounded dry and clipped as the older spoke it, but was incredibly weary. His expression, however, was blank. "The pleasure is all mine, Doctor."

"You're too kind, Mr. Kirkland." She dropped herself daintily into the chair with poise and a grateful smile, drawing herself upright before clasping her hands unobtrusively in her lap. Her gaze was steady on England's as she moved about, either blind or blatantly ignorant to the dangerous undertones of the island's words.

The flint struck again behind green eyes, the dull haze lifting to give way to a streak of light that was much alike to that found upon prey that come to the dawning realization that they've been hunted. Thin lips twitched once, _twice_ more before the light fizzled out into the muddied green once more.

"I am very interested, Doctor," America felt the once limp hand tense in his own, "as to what your visit pertains to."

"Oh, of course!" Cynthia's sweet tones gave nothing away to indicate she realized the growing danger; the younger nation's mouth went dry as generously large brows gave a sharp twinge. "Your friend Alfred has been growing concerned with your behavior. He seems to believe that you've not been yourself lately, sir."

Nails pierced the younger nation's palm with a startling ferocity, sinking until a thin line of blood gurgled from the wounds. America merely brushed an errant thumb over rigid, white knuckles, his reassuring smile unwavering.

"I'm afraid I don't understand, Doctor."

"Begging your pardon," she paused, her keen eyes sweeping over England's face with an air of innocent curiosity. The island's entire body stiffened under the scrutiny. "But I think you do."

And there it was - the rabid, uncontrollable madness surged forth as the monarchist growled - actually _growled_ - and lurched forward toward the woman. America immediately threw his body over the island's midsection, effectively pinning his partner to the bed. He both heard and felt the startled gasp as the wind was painfully forced from the elder's lungs from the initial impact, and used the moment's pause to straddle the nation by his thighs as he trapped one frail wrist in each hand. England instantly began to thrash beneath the new confinement.

"You have no right to come into my home simply to throw out _outrageous accusations!"_

"I wasn't aware that I've made any." Cynthia maintained a cool demeanor as she spoke, her words calm and measured as she cast a worried eye to the younger nation. "I've merely stated observations."

"First it's observations, then accusations are formulated," England bit out as he fought his captivity. "I was only skipping ahead to the point you must be _dying_ to get to,_ Doctor." _

"And what accusations are you so sure I'll make?" The even tone of the woman's voice only seemed to antagonize the older nation as he bucked and twisted savagely beneath America's hands.

"You _know_ what," he snarled, baring his teeth as he panted from his efforts. "Don't you dare play stupid in this, I _know_ you know!"

"What?" Cynthia pressed. "What are you so sure I know?"

"Stop it,_ stop it!" _England's scream was ugly and quavering and shrill; the younger nearly buckled beneath the gravity of the emotion it held.

"Tell me what I know, Arthur." Another long, piercing wail followed the soft command. "Tell me."

"I'm_ not, _I _swear_ it!"

"Arthur, you need to calm yourself," Cynthia said, her voice rising to be heard over the cries. "Calm down, dear; breathe."

"I can't, I can't, _I can't_," England moaned, his body trembling violently beneath the younger nation as he struggled. "He can't know, he'll _know!"_

"Who will know what?" The monarchist shook his head as tears began to trek down into his hair. The doctor tried again. "I can't help you if you don't tell me, love. Breathe, breathe - there's a good lad."

"I never wanted your help," England spat, eyes ablaze as they snapped open to meet the woman's. "I don't _need_ your help, you insufferable bint!"

"Arthur, you -"

"_I'm not insane!"_

America bit his lip as he stifled his sob, appreciative of the blood that splayed over his tongue if only for serving as a distraction from the pain that clawed and tore within his chest. The agony that contorted the lovely features upon the island's face was too much to bear; the keening, tortured sounds and wet screams were growing louder and louder in his mind, blocking every thought, every emotion that ripped through his nerves. The fire was burning, _scorching_ his throat and melting the soft tissue until he was sure he could feel warm, sticky blood pouring from the charred edges of a newly developed orifice. It was spilling, spewing onto the terrified face of his loved one as he screamed and screamed and _pleaded_ -

"Mr. Jones."

Suddenly the young nation was swallowing through the feverish haze, the roar of the blaze dying down to a soft hiss in the back of his mind. He blinked hard to clear the blur of tears as he turned to the woman standing beside him with the saddest expression of concern he'd seen in quite some time. An unbidden smile tugged at his lips at the memory of bright emerald eyes that shimmered with unspilt tears and hands that clung with frenzied worry. It wasn't until the fog of reminiscence faded that he realized the doctor's lips were moving.

"Sorry." He flinched; his voice sounded like a handful of rocks being ground in a blender. "What?"

"I was asking if you were alright." The sweet tones of Cynthia's voice sounded strained as her hazel eyes searched his face. "You've been unresponsive for a several minutes."

Azure flashed sharply in panic, darting to the man below with a startling sense of urgency. But the smaller nation was motionless - asleep, America realized upon studying the slack muscles and the deep, even breaths wafting through slightly parted lips.

"I administered a light sedative," Cynthia quietly edified. "I brought it along as a precaution, though I must admit I hadn't been expecting to use it quite so soon into our meeting."

America stared down at his partner with a sad smile, fingers smoothing reverently across a bushy brow. "Sorry about that."

"It's quite alright, dear." A tentative hand came to a rest on the nation's strong back. "It's your well-being that I'm worried with at the moment."

"I'm fine." The answer was soft, nearly inaudible as the country shrugged the comforting hand away and carefully maneuvered himself to his feet. When his eyes met the doctor's, he wasn't surprised to see the hazel irises had turned to liquid pools of unease.

"I don't think you are, Mr. Jones." Her words weren't haughty or stingingly matter-of-fact; they were hushed and hollowed by the relentless blade of compassion.

And the young nation hated that look. He didn't want her feel sorry for him - she had no reason to. _He_ wasn't the one whose life was in danger, hanging on a treacherous thread that threatened to snap under the strain of battle each day. _He_ wasn't the one who desperately needed help; who needed someone to tell him that it was okay and that he was loved and cherished despite his partner's inability to communicate efficiently.

He suddenly felt the urge to vomit. America didn't need her sympathy - England needed it.

"When was the last time you've had a proper night's sleep?"

Startled out of his reverie, he stared at the woman in bewilderment. When _was_ the last time he'd slept? The days had melded into one another in a blur of motion, but not once did he remember a time of rest.

"I," he muttered dimly, "I don't know."

Painted lips pursed into a thin line of determination, but the alarm in the amber eyes betrayed the look of stern resolve. Cynthia took a moment's pause before presenting her firm pronouncement.

"Mr. Kirkland should be hospitalized."

America's eyes narrowed to slits as the hiss that lingered at the back of his tongue trickled into his ears. "Not an option."

"You cannot do this alone," Cynthia proclaimed, gesturing to his face helplessly. "You're exhausted, Mr. Jones. You may not have reached your limit as of yet, but it's coming, and you won't be able to stop yourself when it does!"

"He is not being hospitalized." The hiss was growing louder, _bolder_ as it trickled into his blood and lit his nerves on fire.

"Please, be reasonable," the woman pleaded. "This situation isn't healthy for either of you - your psyche won't be able to handle this! As an assisting stranger, yes, but as a lover you're left completely at the mercy of his words and actions."

"He is _not_ being hospitalized, Dr. Hunt." The conviction in the man's voice was as solid as steel, clearly making any further debate on the matter pointless. The woman's face fell to a miserable frown.

"You two cannot go on in these conditions," she said meekly. "You've said yourself that what you're doing isn't helping."

"Then I'll do what I can to change things," America growled. His head was beginning to throb dully. "I'll try new tactics to get him to talk. I'll be with him day and night, never leaving his side for a moment so I won't have to tie him up. I'll do everything within my power to see him get better; _anything_ except admitting him to some hospital where he'll be treated as nothing more than a prisoner with no one there to love him when he needs it most.

"I don't care if you think it's the best thing to do. Arthur is different than everyone else - locking him up will only remind him of horrible things...things he's had to go through in his past. He doesn't need to be imprisoned for being sick." The nation drew a long, shaky breath to clear the haze of steam that seemed to cloud his mind. "He needs comfort and - and _love_."

Cynthia silently scrutinized the young man's face, her eyes darting over his features in a fervid search before all stiff defiance slipped from her shoulders in fluid deflation.

"If you are so adamant on caring for him on your own," she said haltingly, "I recommend he be moved somewhere outside of the city. He needs a peaceful environment - somewhere remote and secluded for him to gather his thoughts beyond of the confines of his home." She considered the elder nation upon the bed sadly. "I imagine he considers it a prison in itself at this point."

America nodded. Though only one possible haven came to mind, he was certain that the process of getting England to it would be the equivalent of pulling teeth from a patient without novocain. His jaw clenched painfully at the premonition.

"Also," Cynthia continued, "Mr. Kirkland mentioned something that you might be able to make sense of." Her brows furrowed apologetically. "I'm not sure whether you were with us at that point."

"Probably not," the younger conceded. His hand traveled back to the peaceful, if not painfully lined face of his partner.

"He said something about a frog." America stiffened, his hand freezing before it could reach the pallid flesh. "I thought nothing of it at first, but it was the way he said the word; he sounded positively frantic."

"I think -" America's voice failed, breaking into a hoarse croak. He cleared his throat roughly. "I think I know what he's talking about."

The doctor was silent, clearly waiting for him to continue.

"Someone Arthur's known all his life," America said, resting his hand on a head of golden hair. He was sure every pore on his body illuminated as the nation leaned ever so slightly into his touch. "He has a lot of history with the guy."

"History?" The inquiry was innocent enough; the younger had the sudden urge to laugh at the irony of his choice of words.

"Yeah," he conceded, massaging the scalp beneath his fingers lightly as he spoke. "They sort of grew up together."

"And how was their relationship during that time?"

America's brow furrowed. "They've had their ups and downs, I guess. I've never really talked with him about it." He trailed off, pondering the events of his partner's past. He'd never really thought of asking about England's past before; he assumed the other would either take offense to the questioning or brush off the curiosity altogether. "Arthur's always been pretty caustic when dealing with him as far as I've known him. In fact, it's pretty close to..." _Hatred_.

The woman hummed, observing the small interaction between the two men thoughtfully. "So Mr. Kirkland might be battling with past trauma."

_Past trauma? _As nations, they were subjected to live with volumes of trauma. Wars affected them in the most painful of ways - tearing and rending skin and muscle from the bone with a bomb, breaking bones and organs failing as they lost their people in battles. The stench of the dying and the taste of tears still lingered upon America's tongue, not to mention the constricting pain within his chest during each economical depression. It was simply something that every nation had to bear. What trauma could possibly drive him to the brink if _those_ past sufferings passed through his mentality with no lasting harm?

"I suggest," the doctor said in the most delicate voice America had ever heard, "that you attempt to speak with Mr. Kirkland about his relationship with this man. I don't believe it will be easy if this is truly a case of repressed trauma, but you must be patient. If he refuses to go into details, allow him to open up himself. Don't pressure him in any way; he'll come to you when he's ready,"

She then turned to the bedside table, rifling through the papers scattered across the tabletop before discovering a clean sheet. She scribbled a few lines before folding it into fourths as she looked up to the nations once more.

"This is my emergency number and personal address," she handed the neatly folded paper to America. "I always answer, regardless of the time of day. Please give me a ring if I can be of any assistance."

"But this was just supposed to be a consultation," America frowned, still holding the information with his outstretched hand. "I'm not signing him on to be a patient. This was a one time deal."

Clicked her tongue, but smiled at the man. "Everything will be free of charge, I assure you. I'm simply thinking of your best interest."

"You mean Arthur's," the younger corrected, his eyes narrowing a bit. Cynthia merely smiled. "Well...I appreciate it. Thank you."

"Think nothing of it," the doctor assured with a wave of her hand. "Come be a dear and walk me to the door, would you?"

America agreed, planting a quick peck on England's forehead before following her down the stairs and to the front door. Cynthia shrugged on her coat and gave a last lingering look to the young man beside her before giving his hand a tiny squeeze.

"Get some sleep, love." And with that, she left into the drizzle beyond the porch's protection.

-o-

It was hardly an hour after Cynthia Hunt's departure when there was a sharp rapping on the door, followed by several calls from the doorbell. America frowned, staring at the door with a mixture of alarm and nervousness. There shouldn't be anyone calling on England - he had made sure to send letters of formal apologies to the heads of office on the island's behalf (forged, of course, but nonetheless convincing if he said so himself), so there should be no need of anyone doing any checking up on the absent country.

He headed cautiously to the door, unlatching the bolt before hesitantly drawing open the door. The young nation balked at the sight of the visitor at the doorstep."

"Mr. Cameron," America greeted with a shaky laugh, peering with no small amount of trepidation into the icy blue eyes, "Good evening!"

Thin lips curled into a look of barely contained rage.

"What in God's name are you doing in my country's home, _America?"_


	9. Chapter 9

Slightly later than I had anticipated, but the next should be out in a jiffy! Thank you, as always, dear Tamer Lorika. You own my soul.

-o-

America was not a country to back down from a challenge. He charged into everything in life headstrong and eager, his wild and utterly unbridled energy spurring him forward into any situation with brash determination and a tenaciousness that couldn't be matched.

But many things had changed for the young nation within the last few weeks.

His back had bowed under the constant oppressive weight that had long since settled onto him, and he felt sick in heart and spirit. Cobalt blues that were once brilliant with life and vigor had dimmed into a debauched and muddied grey. Shadows clung to the flesh beneath his eyes and his skin looked sallow and lined with worry compared to his normal tannish pigment. Everything about him was wrong and warped; this man _couldn't_ be the United States of America.

But it was, and under the cold glare of the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, his nervous optimism buckled. His tentative smile fell into a grimace as he took a few steps back to allow the man entrance, looking anywhere but into the icy blue eyes that bored holes into his flesh. The hatred was drowning America, stealing his breath away and choking him as he struggled to keep his hands lax rather than clenched and trembling. He didn't look up at the resounding slam of the door when Cameron threw it closed behind him.

"What are you _doing_ here?" Every syllable sounded disgusting and ugly in America's ears; as if they were coated in some sort of slimy, viscous sludge, crawling into his ear canal and wriggling through to his brain.

"I'm here to help out." The young nation didn't look up. He couldn't.

"Helping?" Cameron's voice took on a mocking tone of dubious outrage. "What on earth could you possibly be helping with this late into the evening?"

America bit his lip, swallowing hard as he willed his hands to _not_ destroy the vase at his side. "He's been sick," he said softly. "I've been helping."

And in hearing those words, something black and ugly began to froth beneath the cool surface of pale blue eyes. It stole across the iris, clouding and sullying the pallid hue with something dark; something that made America's hackles rise and hands twitch violently at his side.

"You've been helping, have you." It wasn't presented as a question; their was an awful accusation in the tone. A violent shudder ripped through the nation's spine.

"Yes," he replied, begging his hands to still.

"And how long have you been here?" America _hated_ that tone. He gritted his teeth.

"For a little over two weeks."

America was aware of two things in the next few moments that ticked by; one, that the Prime Minister smelled faintly of alcohol - some high-end, posh crap that he wouldn't touch on his _worst_ nights. The other being that there was a rather large, partially exposed nail on the wall that was digging into his side from where he was now being pinned. He'd have to get a hammer for that when things got settled once more.

"I think it's rather coincidental that I find you here, America." The young nation tried his hardest not to scrunch his nose at the acrid smell of pricey booze and cigars. "You see, I've been trying very hard to get in contact with England."

"He's been sick," America repeated faintly. "I've been taking care of him."

"That is precisely the part I'm trying to wrap my mind around." A strong arm pushed him further into the wall, further into that _damn_ nail. "Put yourself in my position. As the man in charge of England, I should be able to get him in my office and at my desk in a moment's notice."

The man's face loomed ever closer. "Imagine my surprise, then, when I couldn't reach him over the phone for two weeks. I rang, I sent emails - I even sent a bloody _fax_." America remembered that; he had thrown it away as quickly as he'd received it. "And I was returned with nothing more than some rather vague letters."

"Saying that he was sick," the nation filled in. Cameron's eyes narrowed; apparently that wasn't the right thing to say.

"Yes," the Prime Minister said slowly. "Indeed they did. And I here I come to his home tonight, hoping to be enlightened on how exactly nations can contract an illness, and I find _you_."

"Is it really that strange for me to want to help him?" The conversation was going nowhere even remotely productive, and America dearly wanted to get that nail out of his side.

"Yes." The word felt cold to the nation's ears, driving a sheet of ice to curl through his veins. "Because I don't believe in coincidences."

"I haven't done anything." America repeated softly. "I've been helping him. He's been sick."

"You _liar!" _The nail dug a bit deeper; America looked forward to pounding its head in. "I don't understand why England puts up with you. You're nothing but a child - a child that's taken so much more than he has _ever_ given!"

The young nation went deathly still.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he whispered. This man didn't know; he knew _nothing_ about their relationship.

"I know enough," Cameron spat. "I know of your past, America - it's in history books, these days."

The nation closed his eyes, shaking his head the tiniest bit. "You don't know."

"I know that it's never been a secret that you don't care for him," the man pressed on with a scoff. "Have you not done enough to him?"

The young nation tensed, muscles rippling as adrenaline pumped through his veins in a sudden burst of electric current. Cameron seemed to take this as a sign of admission, for he took the next second to backhand him roughly across the face with a disgusted snarl before pushing off of the nation altogether. With cheek stinging and a warm wetness trickling down his side, America was left dumbfounded as the Prime Minister took off for the stairway.

"Wait," he breathed. There was something up there the man shouldn't see, a small voice reminded him. England, weak and emaciated upon his bed - rendered unconscious. If Cameron saw that, things would become _much_ more complicated.

"Please," he tried again, fear flowing through his limbs like electricity. It spurred him forward to grasp clumsily at the man's coat sleeve as he bounded up the stairs. "Sir, please wait! You cant see him yet, he's not ready -"

"_Unhand_ me, you bastarding shite!" Another sound slap followed the startled exclamation; America, however, did not recoil.

"Sir, he's _sick._" Inexplicable tears burned at the backs of his eyes and his throat seared in his effort to get this man to _understand_. "He's in no condition to be seen right now, or -"

"_Enough!"_

In a sickening swirl of motion and a few rather loud thuds later, America found himself breathless and sprawled upon the carpet at the foot of the stairway. He blinked slowly, struggling to find his bearings as he ineffectually crawled his way back up the steps. His head ached and his throat screamed as he stumbled to his feet, scrabbling for the handrail for balance before hurrying as fast as his sluggish legs would take him up the steps. He just needed a moment to clear his mind of the screaming and whispers and lights and he just_ needed a moment to think. _

"Mr. Cameron," he called once more; his head was swimming. "Mr. Cameron, _please_, he's not -"

But further words failed the young nation upon reaching the upper level. For the man at the end of the hallway was looking inside the bedroom with the most interesting mixture of horror and rage - it contorted his features into a perfectly abhorred expression and stole away any hope the young nation had left. The Prime Minister's mouth opened and closed helplessly, reminding America of a fish slowly suffocating in a dry summer's heat as it flopped fruitlessly around with its last bits of strength. Perhaps that would be him in a few minutes.

"I told you." His voice was pathetically small in its weariness. "I told you he wasn't ready to be seen."

Even with the distance between them, America saw a distinct flash in the man's eyes; something he was too familiar with these days.

"What have you been doing to him?" the Prime Minister growled in a terribly low voice. "What have you been doing to my _country?"_

"I didn't do anything!" the nation cried, his hands going up to curl around fistfuls of hair. "I swear, I'm _helping_ him!"

"_Liar!" _

And America was on the ground once more, straddled by Cameron as the man shook him roughly by the collar.

"Is this your way of declaring war?" The nation flinched away from the bellowing voice. Everything was throbbing, yelling, scratching, and he just wanted to _sleep_. "By holding a nation hostage and _starving_ them?"

"I didn't!" he shouted over the roar in his ears, not even bothering to notice how his head was being pounded into the carpeting.

"God knows what else you've done to him, you _filthy_ bastard!" Cameron shrieked. "You arrogant, lying, _disgusting_ -"

Suddenly something shattered. It was a cataclysm of motion and lights and pain, surging through America's body in a cruel and unyielding torrent. His stomach rolled and heaved, boiling to the point where he was sure the acid must have leaked through the lining and poured into his veins. It blinded him, leaving him grasping helplessly for some sense of reality, something to cling to in the confusion and _pain_.

"I didn't do anything," he gasped, tears streaming down his face in the wake of his agony. "I tried to help."

He could hear England's anguished cries; they filled him to the brim until he swore he could _taste_ the monarchist's misery.

"I was trying," the nation sobbed. "I _tried_."

"I know."

America drew in a shuddering breath. He blinked, fighting to clear the rage of flashes and motion from his eyes to see this person, this person who _believed_ him with those calm, placating words. A wet, strangled sound freed itself from his throat.

"I love him," he said softly. "I'd never hurt him. I love him."

"I know, love." A sharp, prickling sensation began to tingle at the young nation's forearms. "I know. And he dearly loves you. But you have to let him go."

He knew that voice. A pressure began to contract around his arms.

"Arthur?"

"Yes, dear." They were fingers - fingers were wrapped around his arms, trembling from exertion as they pulled. "Let him go, love. He can't breathe."

All at once the confusion settled, leaving America gasping for breath at the sudden burst of clarity. Rather than laying on the floor, he found himself looming over the Prime Minister, hands clenched around the man's neck with enough force that made it clear the intent was to kill. And sitting by his side, pulling with all his might at the young nation's hands, was England and his worried gaze.

"I'm sorry!" America scrambled away on shaking limbs until his back was pressed against a wall. He looked from Cameron to England in a desperate, horrified plea. "I'm sorry, I _swear_ I didn't mean to! I just -"

"Alfred, calm yourself," the island soothed as he slowly crawled forward. A thin, pale hand gently stroked the younger nation's cheek. "Look at me." America complied immediately, streaming cobalt blue meeting calm emerald. "It's alright. You understand?"

The younger merely nodded; England smiled.

"Good lad. Now I want you to do something for me, love." He gestured to the bedroom at the far end of the hall. "Go lay down. I'll be with you soon."

America nodded once more, though he couldn't tear his gaze from the man before him. He had dreamt of this moment for what seemed to be ages - England, in perfect mental clarity. He'd thought up a dozen ways to celebrate the occasion, but none of them seemed appropriate. So he didn't wrap his arms around the small island and burst into tears, nor did he laugh and whoop for joy. Instead, he placed a tired, chaste kiss upon the man's lips before trudging to the bedroom, hoping that the gesture was as heartfelt to England as it was for him.

-o-

After several hours of staring blankly at the ceiling, America jumped slightly at the soft _click!_ of the bedroom door closing. His attention then fell upon the man climbing tentatively into bed beside him. A long silence draped over the room, effectively blanketing the two in a quiet that wasn't quite strained, but certainly wasn't comfortable. The younger nation was the first to break it.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

"There's nothing to be sorry for," England said firmly. "I heard what had happened between the two of you; the Prime Minister was a right prat, the way he treated you." Then, in softer tones, "_I'm_ the one who should be... and _am_ sorry."

"I don't blame you," America shrugged. And he didn't; England couldn't control himself. Why would that warrant bitterness?

A sad, broken smile stole the monarchist's lips, but he didn't say a word. He simply drew closer to his bedmate, wrapping his arms around the nation's middle before resting his cheek upon a broad chest. America easily enveloped the island nation in his arms, his eyes burning at the gesture.

"When was the last time I sang you to sleep?"

America swallowed hard against a tiny lump in his throat. "Not since I was a kid," he said hoarsely.

"Then perhaps you're long since overdue for another." The burning gave way to tears as America nodded against the crown of golden hair.

Clearing his throat slightly, England shifted a bit in the younger's grasp to pull the duvet over the both of them before beginning a soft melody.

"_Hey, Jude, don't make it bad  
Take a sad song and make it better  
Remember to let her into your heart  
Then you can start to make it better_

__

Hey, Jude, don't be afraid  
You were made to go out and get her  
The minute you let her under your skin  
Then you begin to make it better.

And any time you feel the pain, hey, Jude, refrain  
Don't carry the world upon your shoulders  
Well don't you know that its a fool who plays it cool  
By making his world a little colder

Hey, Jude! Don't let her down  
You have found her, now go and get her  
Remember, to let her into your heart  
Then you can start to make it better.

So let it out and let it in, hey, Jude, begin  
You're waiting for someone to perform with  
And don't you know that it's just you, hey, Jude,  
You'll do, the movement you need is on your shoulder

_Hey, Jude, don't make it bad  
Take a sad song and make it better  
Remember to let her into your heart  
Then you can start to make it better."_

As the song came to a halt, the room lapsed into a silence once more. America was the first to break it once more.

"I love you, Arthur."

He felt a smile tug at the elder nation's lips. "And I love you, Alfred." Warmth leaked through America's shirt and the island nation's shoulders began to tremble. "More than you can ever know.


	10. An apology

I feel it is my duty as the author of this story to offer an explanation for the lack of updates to you readers.

It's been an extremely difficult year for me. I've lost many friends whom I considered family, was admitted to a psychiatric hospital, dropped out of college, had numerous nervous breakdowns and other physical health scares, and barricaded myself within my home for nine months. I've lost all inspiration for writing as well as art, and have no clue as to when it'll happen to come back.

It agonizes me to think this story will be left on such a shaky note; the last chapter could indeed be considered an ending, but there's so much more I wanted to say and share. Bulimia isn't a laughing matter – it's a grueling, awful experience for both parties that are victim to the disorder, and there are no quick fixes. There is always catalyst that ignites a small, passing thought into a violent eruption, leading to the desperate measures of purging. If it's not found and addressed, there is no cure.

Again, I'm truly sorry to those of you who were following this. I never intended the turn of events to whisk me away from this fic, but it simply cannot be helped.

Sarah


End file.
